If I were to drive to Newtown, Connecticut, I would cover 260 miles. It would take me about five hours. And yet even from this distance, for the past week, I’ve been carrying Newtown’s babies, whom I have never met, around with me through each day. I have not yet been able to shake the grief.
Last Friday I could barely get through my afternoon classes. All I wanted to do was go to pick up Quinn. I spent Saturday morning with Kim, on a fortuitously planned breakfast date. When I arrived, my eyes were red from crying, and hers were too. I was so thankful for my time with her--we could have sat in silence for two hours and known so many of each other’s thoughts. I needed her understanding company to begin to process it all...sometimes only a best girlfriend will do. On Sunday, Sam went to work to grade papers; how he was able to do that, I don’t know, but I was glad to have Quinn to myself for the day. She and I set up my tent in the basement. We filled it with blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. We stocked up on Goldfish and books. We zipped ourselves off from the world and watched the snow fall through the mesh window of the tent, and the basement’s double glass doors. The bad guys won’t find us here, I thought, but did not say, as I watched her offer Goldfish to Winnie-the-Pooh.
We read the same book over and over again. “Caps for sale!” we yelled, as the peddlar walked down the street with his caps piled on his head. “Caps for sale!” And we worked on flashcards too. Every day Quinn comes into the possession of so many new words. N is for number nine. O is for oboe. P is for the piggy on the puzzle. Q is for the lady with the crown on her head.
I wonder what of these moments she remembers from day to day. They are heavy with meaning for me, things I imagine remembering long after I lose everything else, but Quinn is so blissfully unaware of how fleeting it all is. One night this week, long after I had put her to bed, Sam and I heard her talking in her room. Sam couldn’t tell what she was saying, but I could. “Caps for sale!” she called out in a restrained, past-her-bedtime, half-whisper half-shout, “caps for sale!”
When I start to cry, and force her into a hug, Quinn gets pretty still. She waits it out. She watches with concern. I wish I could explain to her how unspeakably sad I feel for the families of those twenty perfect little people. First graders mostly. Six and seven years old. Just babies...
...It wasn’t until I was in the fourth grade that I finally relinquished my belief in Santa Claus. I was ten years old and my teacher had us doing a Christmas project. The first graders in our school wrote letters to Santa and put them in a big red mailbox in the lobby--special delivery to the North Pole. Secretly, our teacher collected them. He brought them to our room and explained that we were going to write back to each of the kids, on Santa’s behalf. I imagined myself doing an important job--helping Santa who was inevitably too busy to write the letters himself.
My peers had long since stopped believing, but I had a kind of awkward, lingering loyalty to the idea, stemming from an important experience I had had. I had woken up one Christmas Eve in time to see a reindeer leg pumping the air outside my second floor window, working to get lift off for Santa’s sleigh. It was proof; as implausible as the whole thing was, I had proof, and I cherished it.
The letter writing exercise didn’t complicate my belief at all. Not until Mr. Nellist cautioned us not to talk about the project outside of our classroom, because we wouldn’t want the first graders to know that Santa doesn’t really exist.
I think I managed to wait until I got home to cry. I was embarrassed and sad all at the same time, and uncomfortable with the maturity forced on me by the news.
This year Quinn is old enough to start the Santa routine if we choose to go through with it. I feel conflicted about lying to her, in large part because I'm not at all good at lying, but also because it seems like a bad way to earn her trust. She won’t understand the Santa concept completely right now anyway, but I suspect that whatever seeds we sow this year, will take root for next year and the years beyond. And so we have a choice--to lie or not to lie.
But, do we really have a choice? Do we really have a choice given the world around us? It strikes me that Santa Claus is a good early test for us--of how to deal with information and influences that we can’t control. The good news I suppose is that the outcome of this lie is fairly benign; at least for a few years it will bring her joy. And I suppose that is at the root of all the lies we tell our children--the desire to bring them joy, the desire to keep them free from worry, the desire to allow them to feel safe, when really there are no guarantees.
Charlotte and Daniel. Olivia and Josephine. Ana, Dylan, Madeleine, and Catherine. Chase and Jesse, James and Grace, Emilie and Jack. Noah, Caroline, and Jessica. Avielle. Benjamin. Allison. I wish someone could have kept you safe.
One night this week, I was in the kitchen assembling some sort of dinner. Quinn came running up. She put one hand on the counter and tipped her head to the side to look up at me. “Be right back. Okay? See you in two minutes!” I had never heard her use these expressions. She ran off, calling over her shoulder, “See you in two minutes! Be right back!”
I wish they could all come back.
No comments:
Post a Comment